


bruises and hickeys, stitches and scars

by Nori



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, Ferelden Stuff™, Fluff, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-09 03:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11096142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nori/pseuds/Nori
Summary: “So,” Zevran hazards cautiously, keeping his distance from the hulking mabari, “aside from making our fine canine friend look quite fearsome, what purpose does this serve?”The warden looks up at him from the dirt beside Dane, fingers covered in thick black paste.---Or, that time Zevran learned about the kaddis.





	bruises and hickeys, stitches and scars

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this 2 years ago and I still think it's okay, so here we go. My Cousland has changed some since then, as I've grown up and had more time to develop her, but I think this is still worth posting. It was part of a 30 day challenge that I never finished, but maybe I'll take another whack at it? If anyone likes this I guess ahaha. u_u Title from "Smooth Sailing" by Queens of the Stone Age.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoy <3

“So,” Zevran hazards cautiously, keeping his distance from the hulking mabari, “aside from making our fine canine friend look quite fearsome, what purpose does this serve?”

The warden looks up at him from the dirt beside Dane, fingers covered in thick black paste. She hums thoughtfully, turning back to her dog and finishing another delicate swirl on his pale hide. The black paint around the dog’s eyes and muzzle makes him look wild and threatening, but the careful curls on his body serve no purpose Zevran can find. 

“You mean the kaddis?” she asks, wiping her fingers against her simple tunic. Zevran winces at her careless destruction of otherwise fine clothing, but nods an affirmative. Corliss brushes a fall of hair from her face with the back of one hand, gesturing to her little wooden bowl of unused goop. "The design makes it easy for us to pick our hound out from a distance, and the scent allows the dogs to mark allies quickly."

Zevran wrinkles his nose. There are a lot of unpleasant odors in the world, some he’s become quite accustomed to, but he’d be hard pressed to coat himself in something this… _fragrant_.

“You wear that in a fight?” Under his breath, he adds, “I can’t imagine anyone getting close enough to engage you.”

Dane whines, cocking his head to the side and staring at Zevran plaintively. Cori’s lips quirk.

“We do,” she chirps. “Not as dramatically as our hounds, of course. They don’t need the visual to recognize us. Besides, it’s better to smell bad than have a mabari mistake you for an enemy. I’d rather like to keep my throat intact.”

Dane cowers away at her words, whimpering pitifully. Grinning, Cori reaches out to rub her knuckles over a clean patch of fur on Dane’s head.

“Yes,” Zevran murmurs consideringly, “that does seem a sound reason.”

Sound reason or not, he thinks, it wouldn’t hurt to avoid the hound and his master both while they’re painted for battle. Given the warden’s penchant for denying Ferelden’s perpetual wet dog stink, it’s possible she simply can’t tell how truly wretched this kaddis smells. 

“Why?” she asks suddenly, breaking him from his reverie. “Did you want to try it out?”

Zevran’s brow furrows. “What? Try what out?”

“The kaddis,” Cori laughs, plucking up the bowl and offering it to him. “It’s kind of fun, actually, and Dane loves the attention.”

She sets the bowl down, grabbing handfuls of the mabari’s loose jowls and cooing to him like one might a child. Truly, he thinks, Fereldans are so odd. He breathes through his mouth as he picks up the bowl, hoping to avoid the full stench of the paste. Absently, he dips one finger into the paint, watching the warden and her dog play. Dane knocks her onto her back, coating her face with saliva with one long swipe of his tongue, and Cori lets loose a peal of laughter more suited to a child than a ferocious Grey Warden. Zevran is struck with a warm wash of affection, and before he can think better of it, he’s opened his mouth to speak.

“What do I do?”

Giggling, Cori pushes the beast off of her and settles on her knees again. With a grand motion, she presents the still unmarked ribs of her dog’s gray hide.

“You just draw on him,” she says, bemusedly scrubbing drool off her face. “Most hound masters have their own designs, I suppose, but it doesn’t matter here. I always use the swirls because my da-”

She cuts herself off suddenly, expression shifting from amusement to heartbreak to rage, before settling on blank. Zevran carefully files that reaction away for later consideration. She’s not spoken about her time before the Wardens at all, but there is obviously something she wishes to keep secret. What’s not to love about a bit of mystery?

“I always use the swirls,” she repeats, voice carefully lacking anything besides polite disinterest, “but you can do whatever you please.”

He expects her to leave. Storm off and stare rocky faced into the fire, as he’s seen her do many nights since he joined up. Instead, she kneels in the dirt beside him, jaw clenched and hands balled into fists against her thighs. She looks rather like the grim warrior he’d expected to find when he first took this job, and he finds he much prefers the giggling alternative he’s come to know.

“Must you stare? I cannot do this while you are watching.”

She snorts. It’s not a laugh, but he’ll take it.

“Performance anxiety?”

“Alas,” he sighs theatrically, “if only it weren’t so.”

Her lips tremble as she struggles to hold back a smirk. He offers himself silent congratulations.

“I sincerely doubt you ever struggle with that particular problem, Zev,” she says airily. He laughs brightly, pleased to see some of the cheer returning to her already. She has far too pretty a face to waste on undesirable emotions.

“Ah, it’s true,” he leers impishly. “I am irresistible, I know. Everyone is welcome to watch.”

She bites her bottom lip to combat a smile and pushes him playfully. It is not a move that requires retaliation, but he finds himself itching for more of this lighthearted teasing with her. Quickly, before she can realize his plan, he dunks his finger into the kaddis bowl and smears a line of fetid, black paste across her cheek.

She gasps, wide eyed surprise quickly morphing into a challenging grin.

“Oh, if that’s how you’re going to be,” she starts, before lunging for the bowl. She succeeds only in knocking it from his hands and sending the two of them sprawling across the ground. They grapple good-naturedly, trying to struggle after the bowl sitting tipped up on it’s side just out of reach.

They’re surprisingly well matched. He has far more experience, but she has strength and reach. Their struggles for the bowl fade as they turn their attention toward honestly trying to best each other. They reach an impasse after several long minutes, tangled up together with no clear winner. At least, not until he plants one foot on the ground and shoves with all his worth, flipping them over. She gives up the fight without any further struggle.

“No fair,” she complains breathlessly, but there’s a smile lighting up her face. She is a vision of loveliness, he thinks. And quite fit, too. He really would like to get her sprawled out underneath him again, if in slightly different circumstances.

“Oh? I think it’s very fair,” he replies.

“It’s not,” she insists, eyes crinkling at the corner with sudden mirth, “but neither is this.”

A hot, heavy weight slams into his back and for one sharp moment, all his instincts scream at him to _move_ before it’s too late. But Cori is laughing underneath him and there’s hot, slimy drool dripping down the back of his neck and all that sudden tension drains out of him. He collapses onto his Grey Warden, promptly getting smooshed by heaps of happy, foul-smelling mabari.

Corliss groans, a delicious sound that rumbles through her chest, and wriggles around just enough that her chin comes to rest against the top of Zev’s head.

“So,” she grunts, words clipped from all the weight on her chest, “do I win?”

It’s disgusting. Slobber on the back of his neck, putrid kaddis smell, a dog the size of a pony lying on top of him. He shoves himself up, just enough to look her in the eyes. There’s a sparkle there he’s never seen before, and she has a truly delightful dimple in her left cheek.

“No,” he says, flopping down and submitting to this completely bizarre Ferelden sandwich he’s found himself in. “No, I believe I still win.”


End file.
